


The Light, The Dark, and the Spaces Inbetween

by Avocado



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: AFAB reader - Freeform, First Time, Immortal!Reader, Kissing, Love, Multi, Pansexual Reader - Freeform, Polyamory, Reader Insert, She/her pronouns, Slight Canon Divergence, Smut, descriptions of violence, time skip
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-01
Updated: 2019-07-02
Packaged: 2020-06-02 09:08:41
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 8,103
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19438327
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Avocado/pseuds/Avocado
Summary: It all starts when you don’t die.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I love these boys and I love them being in love. I also love reader inserts so...
> 
> This fic has a lot of time skipping, and starts with a crucifixion as a warning.

It all starts when you don’t die.

You’re crucified. Nasty way to go. Hurts awfully.

To be fair, you were plotting against the Romans. Wanting to cause civil unrest. And then they caught wind of your plans and you and your co-conspirators were slammed up on crosses. Very unfortunate.

With little else to do you wait for death.

And it… doesn’t come.

You’re up there for a week. Two. The pain goes from excruciating to mildly annoying. The Roman soldiers don’t really know what to do. Eventually they take you down, in the middle of the night. They can’t really leave you up there. It’s very demoralising for their cause to not have you die painfully, after all. So they just sort of give you a, “don’t do it again” and leave you in an alleyway.

It takes you six months for the wounds in your hands and feet to heal. You can’t walk without a limp.

Life goes on, unstoppably.

*  
You meet Crowley in 44 BC. You’ve been alive a hundred years, give or take. Perhaps you should be keeping better track. This probably doesn’t happen to many people, after all. But what you mostly do is keep your head down and try not to piss anyone off into capital punishment again.

At least you don’t get older. You’re stuck at the age you were when they hammered you up. Could be better. Could be worse.

You’re in Rome at the time. You fancied seeing this country they invaded from. Wondered why they were so keen to get out of it. So far, it’s alright. A lot of floaty clothes.

You nurse your second cup of wine. The popina seems busier than normal today. You’re jostled by a passing man, talking hurriedly, and shoot him a look of annoyance which he misses utterly.

“What’s all that about?” you ask the wine server, but he’s not the one who answers.

“Didn’t you hear? Caesar died. Whole place is in upheaval.”

You turn. The man sitting along the bar is dressed in dark colours, with a little pair of black glass circles over his eyes. He’s swishing a jug of wine around and smiling, all sharp edges and cheekbones. Perhaps the oddest thing is that his hair is… red.

“Oh? How did that happen, then?” you ask. If it’s leaving Rome in a mess, it’s going to leave you with a warm sense of joy.

“He was stabbed. Twenty… three times. All of the senate was in on it. Nasty business.”

“You seem to know a lot about it,” you remark. The man takes another drink and looks smug.

“I couldn’t possibly comment,” he replies, and you get a sense there’s a wink behind his eyepiece. You take a moment to study him again - he’s quite handsome all things considered. You find yourself moving closer.

“What’s your name, then?”

“Crowley. Yours?”

You tell him and he cocks a brow.

“Doesn’t _sound_ Roman.”

“Neither does Crowley,” you retort, to which he can only nod.

“So what brings you to Rome?”

“I don’t know,” you confess, “I’ve been travelling for a while. Just seemed like all roads led here.”

“All roads lead to Rome, eh? I might use that one,” Crowley offers you a drink from his jug and you accept. “You, travelling alone though. Isn’t it dangerous?”

“Can I tell you a secret, Crowley?” you ask. Because he won’t believe you, and you’re a bit drunk anyway.

“Oh I love secrets,” he replies, leaning in closer.

“I can’t die.”

He nods, and then after a moment, says, “do you want to know a secret, too?”

“Always.”

“I’m a demon.”

He kisses you, and you end up in bed.

It’s lucky he lives near - or, at least, has access to a place with a bed. You lose the week to him, to tangled limbs and moans of ecstasy.

You break to get more wine, which he pours over your body and licks off of you, laughing at how it pools in your belly button. You taste the sweat off of him, running your tongue over that snake tattoo on the side of his face. He buries his fingers in your hair and wrenches your head back, smothering your neck in lascivious kisses. You ride him, running your hands over his collar bones and shoving him back down into the blankets.

Yes, for these past hundred years you’ve lived, but this is the first time you’ve felt _alive_.

“You’re unlike almost anyone I’ve ever met,” he pants from under you, his thumbs digging into your hips hard enough to leave a mark.

“‘Almost anyone’?” you parrot. But he is too. He’s incredibly and witty, and never takes off those stupid glasses even when he’s buck naked otherwise.

“I’ve met a lot of people.”

“Anyone who can make you do this?” you rock your hips down ferociously and he groans.

Is it possible to fall in love in a week? You don’t know, but perhaps, just perhaps this man is something special.

You wake up seven days later to an empty room and a pounding head. You look first for wine and then for Crowley but find neither, instead a little handwritten note folded up on a table. You can speak Latin but you can’t read it yet so it means nothing to you, and you tuck it away into your bag for another time.

Two days you wait, and he doesn’t come back. During that time you convince yourself to leave. He might have snaked his way into your heart but he’s mortal. How many years would you have with him before he starts asking questions? Why you don’t age? Why you don’t _die_? And then he’ll perish before you and you’ll be more broken because of it. Easier to cut things off now.

By the time your headache has cleared you’ve forgotten the note entirely.

*  
You wander for a few years. Spend quite a lot of time with the Vikings, they’re a fun bunch. Into exploration. Take a few ships from place to place, take a few lovers on your way. Men, and women, and those in between. But never staying long enough to make a real connection, but taking the time to gather knowledge as you go. There is so much to be learnt on this wonderful earth and so learn it you do.

Not like you have anything but time.

*  
It’s 1390 when you meet Aziraphale.

You’re in England. You have been for the past couple of hundred years, once all that nastiness with the Normans had settled down. You’d worked a bit on a tapestry about it though, but lost interest after a while. Tapestry weaving took an awfully long time.

It’s spring coming into summer and you’re sitting by a river under a tree, reading a manuscript your friend Geoff gave you. It’s quite good and you get swept up - to the point you almost don’t notice the presence of a man behind you.

His aura… it’s so like Crowley’s. In fact you almost say his name when you turn around to see him.

But no, it’s not him. In fact, when you think about it, he feels completely different to Crowley. Almost the complete opposite in fact. He has a kind smile and warm eyes, and bright blonde hair that lights up in the sunshine, almost halo-like.

“Oh, sorry!” he gasps, “I didn’t mean to surprise you.”

“No, it’s alright. Can I help?”

“I just… I was just wondering what you were reading,” he confesses.

“Oh,” you’re relieved it’s nothing more sinister than that. “It’s something my friend is writing. It’s about a pilgrimage.”

“So it’s a holy book then?” he asks, intrigued. He’s so very sincere, it’s quite sweet.

“Sort of. It’s more about the people on the pilgrimage. Do you want to have a read? I’m sure Geoff wouldn’t mind, he’d probably appreciate the feedback,” you confess, and pat the grass next to you to invite him to take a seat. He looks hesitant for a moment before winning (or losing) an argument with himself and sitting with you.

“My name is Aziraphale,” he says, and you offer your name back along with the first page. He seems a bit puzzled, it not really being a modern name any more, but nonetheless says with honesty, “that’s a lovely name.”

It’s the nicest conversation you’ve had for a while, as you sit and read and discuss. The sun begins to set and you realise you’ve been talking for hours.

“I should probably get home,” you confess. Geoff will skin you if you don’t bring this back. “But I could meet you again? With the next part? Tomorrow?”

“Yes, I’d like that,” says Aziraphale, “I’d like that very much.”

So you do meet him the next day. And the day after that. And after that. You fall into an easy routine, the two of you. You promised yourself you wouldn’t let your heart be vulnerable again, not after Crowley, and you were having such a good track record, but it’s been 1400 years and you want to be soft, just for a little while, and Aziraphale’s warm smiles melt the ice around your affections.

You meet every day for over a fortnight. The conversation flows naturally. He’s very well read and so are you - well, you’ve had the time for it. It makes you smile, the way he lights up when talking about the things he likes - which are mainly food, and books, and then you.

One day you share an apple down to the core. He looks at it a bit sceptically when you offer it to him, a bite taken out of it.

“It’s not poison,” you say.

“No, no, of course. Just have a bit of a bad history with apples,” he says, shyly.

“Well, maybe this will break the chain?”

Your fingers touch when he takes it from you, and you smile when you see him enjoy the crispness.

He’s so sweet.

Summer’s in full force. You swat a fly away and look over to your reading partner.

“Aziraphale, you’re blushing,” you laugh. He looks flustered as he rips his eyes away from the page.

“Oh, I erm… it’s not…”

“Is it because it’s about sex?” you ask him bluntly, and the way he turns even redder means it must be true. The Wife of Bath is a bit dirtier than the other stuff Geoff’s written. You like it though, it’s refreshing to see female sexuality looked at and not just swept under a rug to pretend it doesn’t exist. But it’s clearly knocked Aziraphale a bit.

“I just didn’t expect to read about… that sort of thing in a book like this…” he confesses, unable to meet your eye.

“It’s a part of life. Just as natural as life and death. Besides,” you reach over and point to a line in the script, “‘God bad us for to wexe and multiplye’.”

“I suppose that’s true,” his voice is very low. If he were any more red he’d catch on fire. You stare at him, narrowing your eyes to scrutinise, and it falls into place.

“Oh. Have you never-”

“No,” he says, quickly. He’s never mentioned being married but it’s not as if sex outside of wedlock doesn’t happen. “I’ve never found the right person.”

And then he finally looks up, into your eyes, and the way he looks at you finishes the sentence for him. _I never found the right person until you._

You kiss him. He kisses back, unsure of himself, but when you press he begins to respond with gusto.

You make love on the grass by the riverbank, clothes thrown in a messy pile, hoping nobody will come by but not caring if they do. You ride him and watch his head throw back in ecstasy. His hands roam over your body, wanting to touch all of you but not being able to. You kiss him and kiss him and kiss him, and it must be the light of the summer sun, because it looks like he’s glowing.

“You are so beautiful,” he breathes into the skin of your neck as he traces your pulse with his lips.

“So are you. Aziraphale. My Aziraphale,” you whisper. You chase your completion after his and are both left in a satisfied mess.

You wait for him by the riverbank the next day. It’s obvious something is wrong from the moment you see him - he’s never been good at hiding his emotions.

“I have to leave,” he confesses. He sounds heartbroken.

“Where?”

“France.”

“Ah.”

“I’d take you with me if I could.”

“You _can_.”

“My line of work is… well, it’s best if it’s just me there.”

You look at the river, unable to meet his gaze any more.

“If you’ll wait for me I’ll come back. I promise.”

“Alright,” you say. But you both know you don’t mean it. He doesn’t know what else to say so he leaves.

You give Geoff back his manuscripts. You can’t read them any more. Then you head to Scotland for a while. Until it feels better.

*  
You forget him too, eventually. In the same way you forgot Crowley. It doesn’t really go away, the way they’re buried in your heart. It just sort of scabs over with time. Two people you’ve made a connection with after all these years.

It’s 1659. You’re back in London. Something about the place keeps drawing you in, even though it’s a disgusting city. But it’s where a lot of action there - one of the most interesting places by far.

You’re fighting to be on the stage. Women aren’t allowed to act, not legally, but as an act of rebellion you take to small theatres in the backs of pubs and tucked into alleyways.

You’re halfway through a small run of the Scottish Play. You’re playing Lady Macbeth and quite well, you might add. The audiences are only small but you act your heart out to them. It’s dark and cramped in the wings but you love the thrill of the stage, and hearing your cue line you make your way onstage for your first monologue.

You look into the audience and open your mouth.

Then you lose your words.

A familiar face. _Two_ familiar faces. Sitting next to each other. Alive and well. Both looking at you, agog. The same curly blonde hair on one and little black glasses on the other.

“Gah,” you say. The audience mutters. The two of them don’t look any less shocked.

You clear your throat and force yourself to continue. The show must go on after all. But for the next few hours your heart is in your mouth. Because this is _impossible_ , isn’t it? They’re dead. They should be anyway.

There’s a small room set aside for you after the performance. Somewhere you can dress in peace, away from the prying eyes of the rest of the cast. But as you change, there’s a knock at the door. You finish tying your corset as a young tavern server pokes his head in.

“Two gentlemen to see you ma’am. Shall I let them in?”

“Yes,” you say, sitting yourself down. “Yes you’d probably better.”

The room isn’t made for three people, but you all fit in there anyway. Aziraphale fiddles awkwardly with the hem of his coat. Crowley inspects your stage makeup on your tiny dressing table.

“Your performance was incredible. Truly transcendent,” Aziraphale tells you. His voice is just as full of honest kindness as it was three hundred years ago. It makes you smile.

“Thank you. It’s totally illegal of course. But I’ve not been caught yet,” you reply. A silence settles over you and you sigh. “I suppose we have some talking to do.”

“Yes,” Aziraphale agrees. “I think we do.”

There’s another pause. You don’t know quite how to start this. But Crowley speaks first.

“What side are you from?” he asks.

“Side?”

“Yes,” Aziraphale continues. “Are you from…” he waves his finger upwards, “or…” he points downwards vaguely.

“Am I from under the theatre?” you ask, thoroughly puzzled.

“No,” Crowley snaps, tersely. “Are you from heaven or hell?”

“I’m… from neither?” you offer.

“Then how are you _alive_? We met over a thousand years ago! Unless I’ve been miscounting wildly, usually mortals don’t last that long!” Crowley says.

“I told you when we first met,” you say, getting irritated at his tone. “I can’t die.”

Crowley’s mouth opens and closes again. Because technically that’s not a lie.

“Look, we all need to calm down. Clearly there is something strange and… and wonderful about you. So, I suppose, you should start at the beginning?” Aziraphale suggests. And with a sigh, you do. You talk about your crucifixion and your home country. Travelling. Meeting Crowley. Viking-ing for a bit. Meeting Aziraphale. Going up around for a while in order to find some sort of purpose. Not dying, even after that nasty business with the Black Death.

Of course, missing out the parts where you bedded them both.

“I’ve never cared to call it into question. Don’t look a gift horse in the mouth. I’ve been playing the hand I’ve been dealt,” is how you finish. They’ve both found places in your tiny room to perch by now, and look utterly enraptured. They take a moment to exchange a glance. You feel very… put on trial.

“Right. Your turn,” you demand.

“We’re still alive because we aren’t mortal,” Crowley states. Aziraphale winces, perhaps wishing it was phrased more delicately.

“So what are you then?” you laugh, but there’s no humour in it. This is the sort of conversation you never expect to have.

“When you said you couldn’t die. And I told you I was a demon,” Crowley takes off his glasses and looks up. “You weren’t the only one telling the truth.”

Your breath is caught in your throat. His eyes are a bright yellow, little slitted pupils trained on you. Inhuman. Spluttering, you look at Aziraphale. And he’s… glowing.

“I’m not. I’m from, the er, opposite side,” he says. “Which is why we were so interested in where you were from. If you came from heaven…”

“Or hell,” Crowley finishes.

What you want to say is, _I understand, this makes sense. I always thought there was something different about the two of you which I didn’t encounter with any mortal I met over these past centuries_.

What you say is, “hnnngh.”

“Are you quite alright, my dear?” Aziraphale rushes over to you, offering a hand for you to keep yourself upright. You clutch is gratefully. The room is spinning a bit.

“I need wine,” you say, and Crowley passes you a bottle from your bureau. You swig down half of it at once and breathe heavily. The two look concerned but you chase their worries away with a wave of your hand. “I’ve built up a tolerance to alcohol. Had decades of practise.”

“Should we maybe continue this somewhere with more room?” asks Aziraphale, ducking to not hit his head on a coat rack. That’s how you end up back at your current lodging - a small place you rent over a pub. For the right amount of money nobody questions why you’re living alone. It’s also the sort of place nobody questions why you’re taking two men upstairs.

To make things easier you crack open more alcohol. The three of you drink. The conversation flows with the liquor. They’ve known each other for longer than you. Since the garden of Eden, even. Met quite a few times. Became friends, even though they both deny it vehemently. They’ve got such an easy camaraderie, it makes you smile to watch them bicker. And then suddenly you’re so comfortable with the both of them it’s like you were never apart.

“So, I suppose you’ve been around a bit. Having a couple of thousand years under your belt?” you ask. Crowley chuckles and Aziraphale shifts, awkwardly.

“A couple of people here and there. Maybe not as many as you’d think,” confesses the demon. You both look to Aziraphale who clears his throat.

“No. Just. The once,” he mutters. Crowley looks from him to you and the penny drops.

“You! You were the one who deflowered the angel!” he laughs so loudly, this might be the best thing he’s heard all decade. “I pressed him for years and he wouldn’t tell me who it was!”

“I didn’t know that at the time,” you reply. Oh, you're definitely going to hell. “We talked about other things before just jumping into bed.”

“Wait,” Aziraphale says, “the two of you…?”

“It was Rome. Caesar had just died. Wild times,” Crowley says wistfully.

“It was before I knew you Aziraphale. I thought he was mortal and long dead.”

“Charming!”

“Well it’s true!”

“Come on then. How many people have you had?” asks Crowley. It’s your turn to blush now.

“A… few.”

“Hm, the way you say that, I think it’s more than a few.”

“I’ve lost track,” you confess. Aziraphale’s eyes go wide, but Crowley leans forward.

“And was it the same?” he asks, voice low. And with that, something begins to change in the air. It becomes charged between the three of you. In this room. Alone.

“No,” you confess, looking at them both. “Never.”

Crowley grabs the back of your head and crushes his lips to yours. It’s a desperate kiss he gives you, your teeth clacking and tongues touching. The kiss of two people who didn’t expect to be together again.

When you pull away, Aziraphale is heading towards the door, incredibly uncomfortable. Perhaps thinking he isn’t wanted here. But you grab him and spin him round and kiss him too. He’s such a sweet kisser, soft and tender. You feel a mouth on your neck and Crowley’s tongue swipe across your pulse, just like he did back in Rome.

“I-” says Aziraphale, when you pull away, thoroughly flustered, his lips pink from kisses.

“If you don’t want this to happen, just say,” you whisper against him. “But _I_ want it to happen.” By the way Crowley is biting you, he does too. Aziraphale looks between the two of you, torn.

“Consider this my temptation of the decade, angel,” Crowley says, one of his hands running up your side, the other one reaching out to Aziraphale. He looks from it, to you, then to the sky, and with a sigh that’s more of a moan he gives in.

The three of you fit together. Like it was made to be. Their mouths worship firmly at your flesh, Crowley biting, Aziraphale kissing. Marking you in their different ways. A mess of hands and whispered moans. You and the devil use your tongues to bring the angel to ecstasy, then you ride him to completion, feeling his bright yellow eyes bore into you.

“ _Don’t leave again_ ,” one of them says, or maybe it’s both. You infer what they mean. _Don’t leave us again_.

“I won’t,” you reply, “I won’t, I won't, I won’t.” And you press the promises with kisses into their skin.

You’re all exhausted by the end of it. It doesn’t take Aziraphale long to fall asleep, curled up with his face pressed into your chest, but you and Crowley stay away, in companionable silence. He traces patterns into your hair and you run your fingers up and down his leg.

“In Rome. I left you a note,” he says, after a while. Shit. You’d totally forgotten about that.

“Oh… I took it with me. But I forgot about it. I didn’t read Latin.” He stares at you incredulously.

“You didn’t read _Latin_?”

“Oh come on. It’s a dead language.”

“It was alive and kicking at the time!”

“Shh!” you admonish, as Aziraphale stirs a little but continues his steady breathing. Then, “what did it say?”

Crowley pauses for a moment and you think maybe he won’t answer.

“That I had to make a visit to Alexandria. But I’d be back if you’d wait for me.”

Ah. He really is much like Aziraphale, whether he likes it or not.

“I’m sorry, Crowley.” You are. But he shakes his head and looks across at you and the angel, awkwardly snuggled in the bed.

“Don’t be. I like it better like this,” he says, and kisses you.

“So do I.”


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Canon divergence but only a bit. (No “you go too fast for me Crowley”.)
> 
> Also, the events of good omens are very much glossed over - I really didn’t want this story to be like “and the reader was also there in the background!”
> 
> Either way I hope you enjoy the ending of this little fic.

It’s not perfect. Life isn’t perfect, so why should this be any different? But the three of you fall into an easy routine.

You spend a lot of time with each other. They still have duties to attend to, of course, though they have an agreement if they need to be in the same place at the same time just one of them will go. Seems odd to you but who are you to question something that’s worked for thousands of years?

A year later, when women are legally allowed onstage, you ask them about it. Neither of them give you a straight answer but they both look pleased with themselves.

They adopt a name for you, over time. Their nightingale.

You love them both immeasurably. You don’t say it, not out loud. You’re not quite sure how. But you’re sure they know, between kisses sneaked in alleyways and conversations that leave you breathless with laughter. Together the three of you are _wonderful_.

But, at the same time, they’re both so _stubborn_.

“Thank you, miss,” says the lady next to you as you escort her to her front door. You tip your hat to her.

“That’s alright. Next time you go out to work, make sure you have someone with you. It’s dangerous on the streets at the moment.”

“I will,” she says, before heading inside.

It’s 1888. Whitechapel has been the target of several fatal attacks on prostitutes. You’re desperately trying to track down the murderer, but until you can find them, you’re trying to make sure working girls can get home safe.

You check your pocket watch. It’s late - coming up to midnight. You turn on your heel and hurry back a ways, to a tiny pub tucked into an alleyway.

They’re sitting at a table in the corner, hiding in the shadows. And they’re still not talking. The angel and demon are very pointedly not looking at each other, and you don’t suppress your eyeroll.

“Will you two make up already?” you ask, sitting heavily opposite them. Two sets of eyes turn to you. “It’s been over ten years.”

Problems with lovers’ quarrels with immortals: there’s no real time limit on them. A week can be the same as a decade when there’s no end in sight for any party involved.

“I don’t know what you mean,” Aziraphale lies blatantly. “Everything’s fine.”

“You’re both terrible liars,” you snap. You’ve been together long enough to know their tells. Impossible to have poker faces when you’re in a relationship for decades. “Can we talk it out? Please? There’s things going on in London which are almost certainly a bigger priority. Women are _dying_.”

“Mortals die,” says Crowley and it’s so off the cuff it’s like a slap in the face.

“Yes, but I can do something to help these ones. We can do something!”

“Catch him doing anything for anybody,” Crowley spits back pointedly. You slam your fist down so hard on the table other patrons look.

“What the hell is going on between the two of you? I want you to tell me because I’m tired of this.”

“You wouldn’t understand,” they both say at the same time, and it would be funny if it didn’t sting.

“I wouldn’t _understand_?” you ask. “We’ve been together for two hundred years and I wouldn’t understand? Sorry, is this some sort divine thing that I ‘wouldn’t understand’ because I’m ‘human’?”

“We didn’t say-” the angel begins, but the dam has been burst now.

“But I’m not really, am I? Because humans _die_ and I don’t. But I’m not like either of you either, because I’m from this place. So I’m… what? Less than? Whatever this is has been eating us up for over a decade and you can’t talk about it with me. Good. I’m glad I’m valued,” you stand up, and they both look like they want to say something, but neither of them quite has the words to make this right. You scowl to hide the tears.

“I’m going. Don’t look for me.”

And you leave.

*  
You can hear the sound or artillery, but it’s not enough to cover the screeches of pain.

The soldier beneath you has blood bubbling from his lips and shrapnel in his belly. He can’t speak, all he can do is look up at you desperately in fear. The two of you both know what’s going to happen. And there’s nothing you can do.

You try and put pressure on the wound but he’s already bled out a lot. His eyes flutter closed and you see him panic. You gently cup his face and try not to cry.

“It’s alright. I’m here,” you whisper, and he stutters out his last breath.

It’s 1917. This war has been going on for three years. Ever since that night in Whitechapel, you’ve desperately searched for your humanity again - but war is where humanity is lost, not found. You’ve done the only thing you can - nursed in the background. You can’t work miracles. You’ve seen so many boys die. Because that’s what most of them are. Boys. Children being sent to fight other children because the fat cats at the top had a disagreement. It’s not their fault but they’re the ones who get punished.

You save as many as you can, but for some all you can do is hold them as they slip away. War is such a good way to remind you of everyone’s mortality.

You’ve not spoken to your boys in almost twenty years, since you stormed out. It’s times like this you miss them. A tether to remind you there’s something more to all this than just suffering.

The outside air is thick with smoke. You don’t quite remember stumbling out here but clearly you needed a moment. Some of the other nurses are sympathetic, they understand how painful it is to lose patients. Others have hardened themselves to the cold facts of war. A sob comes out of you like a gut punch and you slide down to the floor.

If you’d been looking up you’d have seen them. Two men crossing over to you, wearing uniforms of high ranking officers. One dressed plainly, the other with an obscene amount of medals pinned to him. You’d have seen them looking around, scouting. You’d have seen one of them point you out to the other. You’d have seen them come towards you, hurriedly, putting hands on your shoulder before you felt them.

You look up into two familiar faces, full of concern but more importantly _love_.

“Hello, nightingale,” says Crowley, wiping a tear off your face.

“We’re here to take you home.”

You don’t try to stop them. They get you to your feet and you walk and walk until the sounds of fighting fade.

They take you to the Orkney isles. They’re cold but you’ve always had a soft spot for Scotland. There’s a little cottage there you all hole up in. It’s only a couple of rooms but between the stacks of books and the fireplace always chugging away, it’s made cozy and soft. You wonder for a while why they brought you here, but soon you realise - home isn’t a place. It’s with _them_.

All you can do for a while is sit in front of the flames and relive the war in your mind. Those three years had been the longest in your entire life. Your lovers do what they can for you. Aziraphale reads you books. Crowley sings gently to drown out the silence. They both hold your hands when you fall asleep. It’s difficult to tell how much time passes, but eventually you can bring yourself to look up at them.

“Have you made up?” your voice sounds odd. You wonder how long you’ve been silent for. Aziraphale brings your hand up to his lips and kisses your knuckles, cracked and rough from the war.

“Yes, my dear. We’re sorry.”

“Good. I don’t like it when you fight.”

The three of you drink uncountable amounts of cups of tea. You finally let them get you into the bath. Crowley rinses your back and Aziraphale washes your face and they both pretend not to notice when you cry.

You make love that night. It’s slow and sweet and tender, full of soft kisses and hushed words of adoration. You cuddle in bed after, tucked under sheets. It’s a double and not really big enough - Crowley likes to sprawl and Aziraphale is a cuddler, but you sleep so much better when you’re with them than when you’re not.

It takes a while, but your angel and your demon bring you back to humanity.

*  
They’re called the roaring twenties for a reason. Crowley lifts your arm up and you spin around for him, laughing wildly, before he brings you into his chest. You’ve just come out of a party - hard to say whose, with the demon in tow you can just sort of turn up and walk in without anyone saying a word.

“You look ravishing in that dress,” he growls. ‘Flapper’ style, they call it. It’s sequinned. You like it a lot. It hits the lights and makes you sparkle.

“But, let me guess, it would look better on the floor.”

“Your words not mine, nightingale.”

He kisses you and you both sigh.

“This isn’t as much fun without the angel, is it?” he asks. It’s true. The three of you enjoy spending time one on one, but when you’re together it just feels right.

“Let’s go home. Plenty more parties.”

Aziraphale’s bookshop is _wonderful_. He’s had it since the 1800s but ever since the war ended it’s been your home too. And Crowley basically never leaves so it’s his as well in all but deed. The angel looks a bit fed up with the two of you knocking loudly on the doors and windows in the small hours but it only takes a few cuddles to get him in your side again. Tonight is no exception.

“So, whose shindig was it this time?” he asks. Your head is in his lap and he plays with your hair absentmindedly, a book in his other hand. You heft your legs up so Crowley can sit on the other end of the sofa, then rest on him too.

“I don’t know. Judging by the quality of the liquor, someone rich,” Crowley says airily.

“You can come with us sometime if you’d like,” you offer.

“No, I’m much happier here with my books,” he lets a smile slip, “and the two of you, of course.”

You sigh contentedly and snuggle into him, before your slightly booze-addled brain has a brilliant idea.

“Well, why don’t we dance here? We don’t have to have a huge party to have fun.”

Before either of them can object you’ve gotten to your feet and dug through Aziraphale’s piles of belongings to retrieve the (rare and expensive) record player you and Crowley got him last Christmas. He’s not got many records but you try and find something with the best beat. You spin around to them, open mouthed with laughter and smiling, and they get to their feet uncertainly.

It is then you learn something very important.

They cannot dance.

Your brain can’t quite comprehend what your seeing. Their limbs sort of go outwards, as if they’re trying to fill all of the space around them at once. It’s… bad. Quickly you take the needle off the record.

“Alright. Let’s… not do that again,” you say.

You never do.

*  
World War Two comes and goes. You stay in London and do what you can when the bombs fall. You don’t see much of either of your boys, but you’re all busy, and absence makes the heart grow fonder after all. Your life from there becomes a series of happy snapshots; going on that cooking course and making a feast for Aziraphale as a surprise and seeing his face light up, Crowley’s initial scepticism when you give him a record in 1973 from a band named “Queen” only for them to become the music that will later most frequent his car. (And, on that note, that brief period when Aziraphale becomes obsessed with ABBA, and Crowley pretends they never release another album after _Waterloo_ ).

Things come to ahead in 2008. They look concerned. You plonk yourself down between them on the park bench, taking note of their worried faces.

“What’s the matter this time? Did your favourite restaurant close?” you ask Aziraphale. That had been a problem before.

“No. It’s the apocalypse.”

“Oh.”

You don’t really have an answer to that one.

They explain their plan with the Antichrist. It seems a lot of effort. It also seems like an excuse for Crowley to wear a dress, which he does look _exceedingly_ good in.

“Have you been naughty? Does nanny need to punish you?” he asks. You’re sitting on a couch, looking up at him, and he runs a hand over your cheekbone. God he is very sexy.

Then Aziraphale comes in.

“What the _fuck_ ,” you say. Aziraphale looks mildly offended.

“I think I look very fitting,” he says, through a mouth full of fake buck teeth.

“You certainly picked an aesthetic and went with it,” you admit. Aziraphale gets more into characters than Crowley does. It’s very sweet.

“So?” Crowley asks expectantly.

“So what?”

“Where’s your costume?”

“Oh. Oh no. We don’t need to do everything together. And this seems like a… you thing.”

They both look a little crestfallen. You roll your eyes.

“What about if I get a maid’s outfit?”

Crowley agrees emphatically. Aziraphale blushes. You’ll make him blush more wearing it before the week is out.

*  
Eleven years. Things go slowly. You wish you could see more of your partners in crime, but they’re trying to avoid the end of the world, so you can forgive them for it. Well, if they hadn’t had got the wrong child, which you soon find out.

During that time you get a lot of jobs in museums. You’re _incredible_ at archaeology and dating artefacts. In fact, one time against all the odds, you look at an amphora and find your signature etched in the clay. God you’re old.

Crowley’s Bentley pulls up in front of the Natural History Museum as you step out, which, in the middle of London, is a miracle of itself.

“Get in nightingale,” Crowley falls as Aziraphale holds open the door for you, “we’re going to a convent.”

“We’re going where?”

Except it’s not a convent, it’s a paintball course. Aziraphale and Crowley both get lit up by paintballs and screech. They’re both so dramatic. You love your fools so much.

There’s bickering and not a lot of leads. The place was burnt down. All in all it’s a bit of a dull trip, but you wish it wasn’t spiced up by Crowley hitting a woman on her bike.

“Oh bollocks you’ve killed her!” you gasp.

“She’s fine!” Crowley retorts but quickly looks to Aziraphale for confirmation. He nods. She is fine, luckily, and offered a lift back into town.

“She seems like a sweet girl,” you say afterwards, “lesbian vibe.”

“Do you think so?” asks Aziraphale.

“Yeah I’m quite good at working that stuff out. She’s quite pretty too, don’t you think?”

“I didn’t notice,” says Aziraphale at the same moment Crowley says “ _we’re_ pretty.”

You convince Crowley to let you listen to Fleetwood Mac on the way home. You don’t see the book, it’s fallen under the driver’s seat.

And then… you don’t hear from your boys for a while. Well, you get a couple of texts from Crowley.

😈: what do you think of Alpha Centauri?

_What do I think of what?_

😈: Alpha Centauri. For the three of us.

_Where is that?_

😈: across the universe.

 _Uh. I don’t know how I’d survive there. I mean I assume I wouldn’t die. But I’ve not been off planet before_.

😈: we’d protect you.

_I know._

_Is there sushi there?_

😈: it’s 4.37 light years away. So probably not.

 _Zira will hate it then_.

Crowley doesn’t reply, but you know you’re right. That’s not a problem until a couple of days later, there’s a kraken on the news.

“Will one of you answer your _phone_!” you shout down the line to Aziraphale’s cheerful missed call message. It’s your umpteenth voicemail. You guess if someone knows what’s going on, it will be one of them. Now is not the time for them to be distant.

You don’t want that remedied when Crowley calls you a couple of days later to tell you the bookshop is on fire.

You rush there are quickly as you can, and sob into his arms about Aziraphale. Your angel. What with this whole Armageddon thing, you may never see him again. It breaks your heart. A world without your angel isn’t really a world at all.

You and Crowley drink. _Heavily_. And then find out Aziraphale isn’t really gone, his corporeal form has just been poofed. He needs someone to possess.

“Can it be me?” you slur. He closes his eyes and tries before sighing and shaking his head.

“I’m afraid not, my dear. You’ve passed on from mortality now, so it’s quite impossible for us to share a person.”

You grumble and go to drink your Pinot Grigio. Crowley puts his hand over the mouth of the glass and lowers it to the table as Aziraphale goes to find another body.

You sober up in the Bentley, on your way back to Tadfield. There’s miles of traffic because the M25 is on fire, naturally. Even the dulcet tones of Fleetwood Mac can’t soothe the tension in the car. And then Crowley turns to you and said, “how do you think you’d cope with being on fire?”

For Aziraphale? “Well. I’d cope.”

Being on fire _hurts_. But your skin neither blisters nor sloughs off so that’s a plus. When you pull up to the airbase there’s a small group of people there. Aziraphale is in a lady’s body.

“You look nice,” you say to him, and the body blushes.

“Thank you dear,” both him and the lady say at once, from the same mouth.

It’s an odd few minutes that follow to say the least. The antichrist is there, but he looks a lot like just an eleven year old boy with a Jack Russel. Your angel and demon hold his hands while he fights, erm, Satan. And wins. So that’s alright then.

After it all, the little girl who was there turns to you, sceptically.

“Who are you?” she asks.

“Who are _you_?” you retort. You don’t know how to deal with children. Maybe you should have worked on that in the past thousand years.

“Pepper. I’m Adam’s friend. I asked you first though.”

You tell her your name and add, “I’m with them.” She looks Crowley and Aziraphale over and asks, “are you in a polyamorous relationship?”

“Erm. Yes.”

“Cool.”

You like Pepper.

*  
Things calm down over the next couple of days. The three of you stay at your flat. Aziraphale’s bookshop has burned down, and Crowley doesn’t want to be where the two of you aren’t. There’s still something in the air, though. Something worrying.

One day they’re both acting very odd. You don’t wake up to find Aziraphale already raiding your fridge, nor Crowley sprawled over your sofa. Instead they’re both sat at your table. They try and engage you in conversation but something is off.

“Are you both feeling alright?” you ask, making a cup of tea.

“Of course, nightingale,” Crowley says. You stare at him for a long moment before you ask,

“What's your favourite band?”

“Queen,” he shoots back.

“ _Second_ favourite.”

“Velvet… underneath?” next to him Aziraphale cringes. You put your mug down and cross your arms.

“Why are you in each other’s bodies?”

“How did you guess?” Crowley’s body asks, deflating.

“We’ve been together for almost five hundred years. It’s hard to pull the wool over my eyes. So are you gonna spill the beans?”

“Well. We’re in a spot of bother with… our head offices.”

You feel yourself grow cold. “What kind of bother?”

Quite a bit of bother it turns out. Less of a spot and more of the entire dot to dot. You sit down shakily in your chair and they reach out and take a hand each.

“Are you alright my dear?”

“Am I… alright? You’ve just told me heaven and hell want to kill you!”

“Yeah, but we’ll be fine,” says Aziraphale In Crowley’s voice.

“Will you? Because you’re going to _trick_ them?!” this seems like a Bad Plan.

“Come on. We’re smart. Have a bit of faith in us.”

You do. Of course you do. You have more faith in them than anyone else you’ve ever had in your life. You look between them and speak quietly.

“But I don’t want anything to happen to you. I love you.”

It’s the first time you’ve ever said it out loud. You thought it might have more of a weight, but they both shoot back “we love you too” instantly, at the same time. And it’s so strange, them sitting in each other’s bodies opposite you, than all you can do is laugh and squeeze their hands.

Crowley has told you to book somewhere nice and wait for them after. So you’re sitting at a table in the Ritz, wringing your napkin between yours hands, worrying the most you’ve worried in a thousand years. What if it doesn’t work? What if they _die_? And you’re left all alone again? This whole thing has been insane, utterly crazy these past few years. And they’ve been the anchor holding you down to humanity. Without them what will you do? Who will you be?

The chairs across from you are pulled out. You’re met with two smiling faces and relief washes over you like an ocean.

“It worked?”

“It worked.”

You choke back a sob, and bury your emotional outburst over reassurance in your pasta dish.

“You got an archangel to miracle you a towel?” you ask, laughing through your penne. Aziraphale looks pleased with himself and Crowley looks at him fondly.

“It was a stroke of genius. Seemed like something Crowley would do, after all.”

“You’re both so clever,” you say, and they puff up a bit at your praise. And then you sigh. “So now what? What comes next?”

“What do you mean?”

“Well, we have the rest of our lives. What do we do now?”

“We could get married,” Aziraphale says, and it’s said so blasé that you almost miss it. Crowley chokes on his wine.

“We could get _what_?!”

“Married.”

“The three of us?” you ask. Aziraphale shrugs.

“Why not? We’ve been together for long enough, after all. If it were back in the day we’d be common-law married.”

“What, in a _church_? Not really the best place for me, angel. Didn’t really think it would be your speed either. Not after all of… _that_.”

“Doesn’t have to be in a church. There are plenty of other places that we could get it done. Registry offices and the such.”

“I think it’s a lovely idea,” you say, squeezing Aziraphale’s knee under the table. He beams at you. Crowley mutters and takes another drink. You’ll talk him round, though. You always do.

Crowley’s car is miraculously restored, and so is Aziraphale’s bookshop - which is lucky because after the demon drives the three of you back there you don’t get out of bed for a week. Well, celebration is meant to be celebratory after all.

You run your hands through Aziraphale’s soft hair, and stroke the tattoo on Crowley’s cheek. You’re safe. You’re all finally safe, and it’s a new dawn now.

You don’t know what the future holds. But so long as you have each other, you’ll be alright.

*

One of Agnes Nutter’s prophecies probably wouldn’t be noticeable unless it was looked at by the right person. Or, people.

Prophecy 2371  
the three of ye will fit togethere lyk the Light, Darke and spaces in betweene. There will be those comment to say, that it is Very Moderne. Pay unto them no heed. What do they know, cheekie buggers.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thank you so much to my dear friend M who helped when I had writer’s block And without whom this fic would be much more of a mess <3


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